


A Study in Madder

by ariadnes_string



Category: Merlin (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Gen, but in Camelot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:34:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2172996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Watson returned to Camelot after a long absence, he made three vows.</p><p>The first of these, to turn his face from violence, he broke almost immediately.  Mere days after re-entering the kingdom, he found himself standing once more over a dead body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Madder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mullu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mullu/gifts).



> Portions of the dialogue here are taken directly from "A Study in Pink"; these are the property of that episode's writers.
> 
> Thanks to g and d for help with the world of _Merlin_. All mistakes are my own.

When John Watson returned to Camelot after a long absence, he made three vows.

The first of these, to turn his face from violence, he broke almost immediately. Mere days after re-entering the kingdom, he found himself standing once more over a dead body.

Granted, he had had nothing to do with the person’s demise, which made a change. The body, a woman’s, lay sprawled on a garret floor without a mark upon it, the barest touch of froth about its lips. War had not killed her. But that was small relief.

The body was the fourth to be found in similar circumstances. John had heard of the first three as soon as he entered the town—ghoulish tavern gossip that people were all too willing to share with a newcomer: two men and a woman found dead with no trace of violence or illness—not even robbed. There was no connection between the victims, nor did any have known enemies. Self-murder, whispered some; a new plague, speculated others. Many just shook their head and raised their eyebrows, implying the one possibility, that in Camelot, it was too dangerous to name.

Now, however, as he surveyed the scene of the fourth crime, John’s attention was focused less on the body than on the man who had brought him here, the fantastical person with whom he’d recently agreed to share lodgings: Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock’s black cloak swirled about his spare figure as he twisted and stretched to the see the corners of the room, revealing the dark purple tunic he wore beneath it. John noted again the way the luxurious fabric of Sherlock’s clothes belied the chaos and penury of his rooms huddled next to the Sign of the Baker. John had just been trying to take stock of those rooms—the glass vials and untidy stacks of parchments, the skull standing sentry over the dirty hearth—when another man had burst in on them, this one wearing the red cloak and shining mail of a knight of Camelot, cropped gray hair above an open, honest face.

“There’s been another one,” the knight had announced, with no preamble—his relation to this eccentric denizen of the lower town seemed familiar enough to preclude ceremony. Or, perhaps the matter he’d come upon was urgent enough to forgo it. 

And yet the news had transformed Sherlock. His strange, light, eyes had lit up; his lips had curled into a vulpine grin. “But there’s something different this time—some reason you want me,” he’d said. It hadn’t been a question.

The knight had sighed. “This time, there’s a note. Or something. We can’t quite make it out. Will you come?” 

Sherlock had appeared to consider, obviously savoring the moment, the knight’s entreaty, diffident as it was. Then, curiosity won out. “I’ll follow you,” he’d told the knight, with a glance out the door to where the heavy horses of a company of knights pawed the earth. “But I won’t ride with them.”

John had tried to parse the situation. Clearly relations between the castle and the town were as tense as they were rumored to be, if Sherlock wouldn’t ride in the company of Uther’s men. But then why had the knight come this far into the lower town seeking Sherlock’s help? Seeking his help with what sounded like the latest in the chain of mysterious deaths. He had still been pondering the question when he’d noticed Sherlock’s sharp gaze upon him. 

“So, you say you’ve been a mercenary physician in the war bands of our neighbors? Only come home now because you can’t keep up anymore?” His eyes had flicked to the stout oak staff John carried.

John nodded, impatient with the questions. Surely Sherlock knew all this already.

“You’ve seen a lot of violent death, then?” 

Another nod, warier this time.

“Fancy seeing more?”

 _No_ , something in John’s mind had whimpered. He’d seen too many bodies ripped apart, tried to save too many lives as their life’s blood left them. Had almost shared their fate. But here was Sherlock, his face bright under its tangle of dark hair, the promise of adventure shining in his eyes, his voice as resonant as a bell in a secret cave.

“Oh, yes,” said John, and he meant it with every fiber of his being.

“Good,” said Sherlock, crisp and matter of fact again. “I could use the eyes of a physician not in Uther’s pocket.”

*

Thus, there they were, John trying to spare his bad leg as he knelt awkwardly next to the woman’s body, as Sherlock circled the room turning over bits of detritus. With them were the knight who had originally summoned them—Sir Gregory, his name turned out to be—and another physician with sparse white hair in locks about his shoulders. He and Sherlock greeted each other with undisguised suspicion.

“Still in the King’s employ, I see, Gaius,” Sherlock said, with a contempt John was beginning to suspect was habitual. “Don’t you find being constantly at Uther’s beck and call a bit _chafing_?”

“Sherlock,” Gaius answered, with more benevolent amusement. “Glad to see you haven’t blown yourself up yet.”

Sir Gregory, for his part, seemed primarily concerned with ascertaining whether the murder had been carried out by magic.

“Obviously not,” said Sherlock.

“Poison, certainly,” said Gaius.

They both frowned, perhaps disappointed to be caught in agreement, and then went quickly back to studying the body, staying as far away from each other as they could.

“Who’s that,” Sherlock hissed at Gregory, jerking his chin at a raw-boned, dark-haired boy poking through the baskets in one corner of the room.

“Gaius’s new apprentice,” Gregory whispered back. “Just in from the country. Morton? Mervin? Something like that. Bit of a clod, I think.”

As if on cue, the boy appeared to trip over his own feet, landing on his arse in a pile of wicker.

“Merlin,” Gaius sighed reprovingly. “Do be careful.”

The boy flashed a grin of disarming beauty, and painstakingly began to right himself.

“She’s not from here,” Sherlock pronounced. 

“How do you know that?” John asked. To him, the dead woman, past youth, but not old enough to have grey in her light-brown hair, seemed remarkably free of clues as to her identity.

“Her clothes.” And then, in obvious condescension to the other men’s confusion. “Sorry. Idiots—I forgot. She’s dressed herself in this charming shade of madder’s root red to meet her lover, but the color is stippled, uneven.” He pointed to a tiny irregularity on the sleeve of the woman’s gown, and then another on the skirt. “Clearly the work of a country dyer—or the victim herself—not one of Camelot’s skilled craftsman.”

John peered at the woman’s clothes, and then at Sherlock, amazed by the man’s discernment, his ability to read meaning into the smallest details. Here was a marvel he had not expected to see in Camelot.

“But how do you know she was coming to meet her lover?” Gregory asked.

“Why else re-dye an old gown, however inexpertly?” Sherlock pointed to a bit of fraying at the neckline, where the age of the fabric contradicted the brightness of the color.

John thought that Sherlock underestimated the excitement of a woman journeying to Camelot, lover or not, but the basic point held true. She had come from a village, only to find death in the great town.

To say that the victim had left a note was, as Gregory had intimated, something of an overstatement. Rather, it seemed that she had managed to scrawl something on the floor with a charred stick from the room’s hearth, before she died. They all circled the marks, though it was hard to determine if they were meaningful, or the result of the tremors of a dying hand. A wavering circle—or a loop punctuated by five bumps—held a line with four other lines extending from it. Another, smaller, circle floated above the line.

“Do you recognize it?” Gregory asked Sherlock and Gaius. “An ancient rune? The symbol of some secret society?“ He lowered his voice to a whisper. “A magical device?”

Both men shook their heads. “It looks familiar,” Sherlock said. “But I can’t place it.”

*

John and Sherlock left soon thereafter, leaving Gregory’s men to clean up the scene. Dusk had fallen while they’d been inspecting the body, and a few early stars gleamed above them.

“Do you think it could be,” John asked hesitantly. “Could be magic?”

Sherlock laughed harshly. “No. Very few of the things that people think are magic really are. And even the ones that are can usually be quite easily explained. Magic is a natural force like any other, obedient to its own rules and open to study. Oh, for a chance to study it.” He clapped his hands together and fairly smacked his lips.

John felt a shiver of unease run through him. Sherlock's was a point of view he hadn’t heard before. People either feared magic or they coveted it. No one treated it as a natural phenomenon, something to be experimented with. "What manner of man are you?" he asked before he could help himself.

"What I am," Sherlock said, with a certain degree of smugness, "Hasn't been invented yet." 

"Right." They walked on a bit. “So,” John ventured, “I take it you don’t agree with Uther’s edicts against magic, then?”

They were on dangerous ground now. People were thrown in the dungeon for lesser crimes than disagreeing with the king. John hardly expected Sherlock to reply to such potentially treasonous talk.

But he did. The man seemed to have no fear. “No, of course not. Pure poppycock. As if banning magic will make it go away. It’s like putting your hands over your eyes and pretending a bear isn’t in the room. It’s Uther who’s childish and superstitious, not the village folk who believe in the old ways. Or, they are, too. But about different things.”

Even though he had brought the subject up himself, John wasn’t sure he was ready to follow Sherlock into this particular discussion. He was spared the decision, however, by Sherlock stopping dead in his tracks and saying, “Oh.”

“What? What is it?”

“I’ve forgotten something. Won’t be a tick. Don’t wait up.” And without any other explanation, he went loping off into the shadows.

*

Thoughtful, John continued his now solitary way back to the rooms next to the Sign of the Baker. Without Sherlock’s galvanizing presence, weariness settled across his shoulders. His staff seemed to catch in every rut on the pockmarked road, jarring his leg, and he wished heartily that some cart or wagon would come along from which him might beg a ride.

A few minutes later, somewhat to his astonishment, one did. It was not, however, the roughhewn vehicle he’d imagined, given the surroundings, but rather a litter carried by two fine white horses. No crest or sign marred its white silk draperies. 

John expected it to pass him by, but instead the litter slowed to his own pace. A delicate hand drew aside the hangings just enough for him to see a veiled, female face.

“John Watson?” The voice was melodic and highbred. John nearly stumbled at the shock of hearing his own name. The woman in the litter laughed. “Get in.”

“I—“ John gestured vaguely at his staff, his muddy boots.

“It matters not. Ralph—“ A hitherto invisible serving-man appeared out of the evening’s gloom. He wore livery, but it was too dark for John to read the insignia, if there were any. “Help Master Watson, please.”

The man knelt without a word and offered John his cupped hands. John, too bemused to do otherwise, stepped up, and pulled himself clumsily through the now-parted curtains of the litter. He doubted cutthroats or highwaymen usually appeared hung about in white silk. And even if they did, he couldn’t imagine what they’d find to steal from him.

“Hello,” he said, trying to sound as if being accosted by highborn women in expensive robes was something that happened to him every day. “What’s all this about then?” 

She made a small dismissive sound and gave a tiny shake of her head, just enough to shiver the fabric of her veil. Then she called to her servant to lead on.

John didn’t ask any more questions. At some point in the course of the day, he seemed to have left ordinary life behind and entered a dream or vision. 

Certainly, his present circumstances were eldritch. The woman, so close to him on the pillowed bench of the litter that he could feel her breathing, wore a gown that glowed yellow, or perhaps green, in the dimness. She held a small psalter in her hands that she caressed like a holy relic, and she smelled of some rich and exotic spice. John’s head swam a bit as he breathed it in. 

The horses were strong and well-trained; the litter hardly bumped as they carried it along the rutted road. After a while, however, the sound of their hooves changed from a muted _clop_ to the distinct _click_ of iron against stone. They had left the lower town and entered the confines of the citadel.

The sound brought John abruptly out of his reverie. What could he have done to raise the attention of the castle? Had some spy have heard his conversation with Sherlock on the road? Alarmed, he turned toward the woman again. “What are we doing here?” he asked, wondering if it were possible, even now, to escape.

But the woman only tilted her head to one side, as if she were amused by John’s confusion, and called again for her servant.

“At least tell me your name,” he said as he clambered out. “Since you know mine.”

“Anthea,” she said.

*

John found himself on the cobbled stones of the castle grounds, facing a black oak door. Even this minor entrance was well-lit, but it bore no indication of its use. The servant threw it open and gestured for John to proceed up the corridor onto which it opened.

John found himself reaching for the sword he no longer carried. The pleasant swaying of the litter, the proximity of the fragrant Anthea, had lulled him into thinking this might be an elaborate joke. But entering the confines of the castle had triggered his sense of danger. He might have just been lured to his death, if Uther’s justice was as summary as it was rumored to be. He glanced back at the bulky servant blocking his retreat, and felt his body involuntarily preparing to fight its way out.

His anxiety was not eased by entering the murky room at the end of the corridor. A row of guttering torches was set along one wall, and a tall man stood in front of them, visible only in silhouette.

“John Watson?” The man’s voice was higher and lighter than one might expect from such an imposing figure, but its cold air of command was intimidating nevertheless.

John centered his staff in front of him, ready to use it as a weapon if need be. “Who wants to know?”

The man laughed, but didn’t answer his question. “I understand that you have recently begun to share lodgings with Sherlock Holmes.”

“How--?” John blinked. Of all the paths this conversation might have taken, this seemed the least expected. “I only just decided—“

“Ah,” said the man, and this time the ice in his voice made John shiver. “You’ll find I have many eyes in Camelot. John Watson: recently returned from serving in the armies of Mercia and Caerleon. A respected healer, but no longer able to keep up with the war parties, due to an unfortunate injury. What are your plans for supporting yourself now, I wonder?” John’s heart beat loud in his chest. The man knew so much. What else did he know? “I have a proposition for you. Something to help make ends meet.”

“No,” John said, before he could think better of it. He wanted nothing to with this man, with this citadel, and possibly not with Camelot itself.

“Touchy, touchy. It’s simple, really. You live with Sherlock Holmes; I am prepared to offer you a substantial amount of coin to inform me of his activities.”

“I’m not interested.”

“You’re very loyal, very quickly.”

“No, just not interested.”

“Think carefully, John Watson. To most, Camelot seems a peaceful land, under the wise rule of Uther Pendragon. Walk with Sherlock Holmes and you see the battlefield it truly is.”

This was only what John had already guessed. And yet, the man’s voice made his skin crawl. The encounter only substantiated Sherlock’s distrust of the citadel and Uther’s minions. “You have your answer. May I go now?”

“Of course. But the offer remains open.” 

Every inch of him expected to be stopped on his way back down the corridor, but John regained the open air unmolested.

*

It seemed to John that eons must have passed while he was inside the citadel, but the moon still hung low in the sky as he made his way back to the rooms next to the Sign of the Baker.

Sherlock was there before him, long limbs sprawled over a low chair, poking moodily at the roaring fire in the hearth. 

“Where’ve you been?” he asked

“I—I think I may have been kidnapped. By someone in the castle who is very interested in you.”

This information, which John thought might alarm Sherlock, provoked little reaction. “You’ve met him, then?” Sherlock asked, eyes still on the flames.

So the tall man was someone Sherlock knew. “Who is he?”

“The most dangerous man in Camelot.”

Dramatic words. John waited for Sherlock to explain further, but just then, someone hammered at the door. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and gestured for John to open it. One hand again defensively on his staff—who knew what fresh surprises the night held for them—John did so. No armed knights or beautiful veiled ladies; only a pale, young man with dark hair. John blinked twice before he recognized Gaius’s apprentice.

“I, erm, I thought you might be interested in this.” The boy held up a bundle wrapped in mottled red cloth—cloth the same shade as the murdered woman’s dress.

“How on earth did you find that?” Suddenly, Sherlock was at John’s shoulder, sharp and demanding. “I spent all evening looking for it.”

The boy shrugged warily, still holding the bundle in front of him, both protection and offering.

“Well, come in, come in, no point in dawdling on the doorstep, young Mervin.” Sherlock reached around John to pull the boy into the room.

“Merlin,” the boy protested. “My name’s Merlin.” But he allowed Sherlock to take the bundle from him and lay it on the worktable, pushing aside the detritus of various experiments.

John followed them, wondering why Merlin had chosen to bring the bundle to Sherlock, rather than his master, Gaius. “Wait,” he said, as Sherlock began to pry open its fastenings. “Shouldn’t you bring it to Sir Gregory?”

“After what you’ve seen of how things are done at the castle, can you really ask me that?”

And Merlin, answering John’s unspoken question, added, “The King’s men have been outside Gauis’s rooms all day. They’re looking for something. That’s why I brought it to you.”

“Ah, here we are.” Sherlock carefully pulled open the coverings to reveal the bundle’s contents, which were touchingly humble: a hard bread roll; carefully folded linen small-clothes; and a scrap of folded parchment. Sherlock pounced on the last item, eagerly smoothing it out. But it only revealed a rough figure—a stick figure with four legs—surrounded by a circle.

“What is it? A dog? A horse?” John asked. He squinted at it, and then tilted his head to see the figure sideways. “Oh. It looks a bit—well, this part looks a bit—like whatever our lady in madder was trying to draw.”

“Yes. Well spotted, John.” John glowed a bit from the unprecedented praise, whilst Sherlock tilted his head in the same direction. “But why draw this, in the last minutes of her life? What did it mean to her?” He steepled his fingers in front of his face and frowned. “I know I’ve seen this image somewhere else, but where…?”

He was prevented from saying more by someone, for the second time that night, banging on the door. “Go away,” Sherlock barked, but the visitor paid him no mind, bursting into the room instead.

“Merlin,” said Sir Gregory, for this time it was the king’s man, followed by two other knights. “I’ve come to take you into custody on the charge of murder, by order of King Uther.”

“What?” Sherlock rose to his full, impressive height. “Don’t be ridiculous. The boy had nothing to do with it.”

“Stand aside, Sherlock. He was seen carrying the latest victim’s belongings—the very ones lying on your table now.”

“Not even Uther can possibly think this boy guilty of multiple murders. How could he have done it? He hasn’t the strength to hurt a fly, not to mention the wits—look at him.”

They all did. Merlin appeared as gormless and feeble as Sherlock described him, his wide mouth hanging open a bit. 

“By magic, of course,” said Gregory. “Now, I repeat, stand aside, or I’ll have to bring you in, too.” 

Sherlock raised his hands in acquiescence, but his face registered his contempt and disapproval as two knights dragged Merlin off, his slim frame dwarfed between them.

“What now?” John asked, when the sound of their horses’ hooves had faded. He felt sickened by the citadel’s sudden, brutal intervention, along with a guilty relief that he and Sherlock had somehow managed to escape it.

Sherlock was expressionless, his eyes cold, even in the warm light of the fire. “As much as it goes against my principles,” he said, “I feel we must seek an audience with the king.”

*

It was not without considerable trepidation that John approached the throne room of Uther Pendragon early the next morning, but he was borne along by Sherlock’s inexorable purpose and his own sense of the injustice being done to Merlin.

The sight of Uther’s implacable face above a crowd of knights and courtiers did nothing to quiet John’s fears. As they entered the chamber, the king was holding up his hand as if to silence someone, and John realized they were not alone in protesting Merlin’s arrest.

At first John thought the supplicant must be Gaius; the boy was his apprentice, after all, and he must know him to be innocent. But then he saw Gaius standing to the king’s left, looking exhausted and defeated.

Instead, when the crowd shifted, John could see that Uther was addressing a fair-haired young man in bright armor—an outraged young man by his posture. Then, the youth turned his head, and John recognized Uther’s son and heir, Arthur Pendragon.

Sherlock paused in his headlong rush into the room, putting up a hand to make John stop, too.

“That’s enough, Arthur.” Uther’s rebuke carried to the outer reaches of the chamber, reverberating off the stone walls. “I know he’s your servant, and you want to think well of him, but you can’t ignore the facts.”

“What facts, sire?” Arthur was apparently angry enough to ignore his father’s commands—angry enough to air his objections in front of a crowd of knights and courtiers. “There are no facts at all in these cases, or none that I’ve heard.”

In answer, Uther began to list the known circumstances on his fingers. “Four people are dead. None of them had any known enemies, nor any connection to each other. None were seen being followed, nor have there been any signs of attack. Gaius cannot ascertain the cause of their deaths. A rune was scrawled in ash at the last murder site. There can be but one explanation.” He put up a hand to silence Arthur’s incipient objection. “Magic. A witch or wizard practicing their capricious evil on the good people of Camelot.”

A murmur of assent arose from the chamber, but Arthur wasn’t finished with his defense of his servant. “But why Merlin? Why don’t you believe him when he says he simply found the bundle? All of Sir Gregory’s knights were looking for it, and he was merely trying to assist them.”

Uther narrowed his eyes. “Can’t you see? The murderer must be someone who can gain people’s trust easily. Someone who can go anywhere and not be noticed. Who better than the prince’s servant and the apprentice of the Royal Physician?”

Arthur spluttered an answer, but John hardly heard it because, beside him, Sherlock suddenly tensed. 

“What? What is it?” John hissed as Sherlock slapped his own forehead with his palm.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Sherlock muttered. “The signs, John, don’t you see? The signs—they’ve been there all along, and we’ve been too stupid to notice.”

“No, I don’t see. I don’t see at all. What signs? And where are you going?” He grabbed at Sherlock’s cloak as he moved away. “I thought we’d come to make our case to the king.”

“You do it. Here.” He pressed something into John’s hand. 

It was the piece of parchment from the countrywoman’s bundle. John stared at it. He had seen Sir Gregory’s men gather up the contents of the bundle—how had Sherlock managed to hold this back?

“Wait,” he called, but Sherlock had already pulled himself out of John’s grasp and disappeared into the crowd.

John stood dumbfounded for a moment, furious at Sherlock for dragging him to this treacherous place and then abandoning him. Though, then again, to judge by the previous day’s adventures, it seemed to be his _modus opperandi_. John drew a breath and looked about. Uther and Arthur’s argument appeared to have concluded. The prince was nowhere to be seen, and Uther was now in close consultation with one of his advisors. John drew a breath and let it out again. Without Sherlock at his side, he doubted his ability to approach the king with mere scraps of evidence, especially after witnessing Uther’s reaction to his own son’s attempt to reason with him. Perhaps he could show the parchment to Gaius, however—Gaius knew Camelot well, perhaps he would know if it held the symbol of some religious cult or rebel group.

He steeled himself to approach Gauis, but just as he got within speaking distance of the court physician, he glimpsed a face that made his blood run cold. There, in the shadows behind Uther, was the tall man of the previous evening. In contrast to the play of emotions on the faces all around him, the man’s face was still and watchful. Only his eyes moved, keen, and somehow cruel.

John’s courage failed him utterly. He turned and left the audience room as swiftly as his staff and aching leg would allow.

*

He paused in one of the shadowy courtyards of the citadel to gather his wits. The scrap of paper was still clenched in his hand, and he smoothed it out carefully, trying again to puzzle out what it could be.

As his heart rate returned to normal, however, he realized he was not alone. Leaning against one of the stone pillars, obviously seeking the same solace of quiet and solitude as John, was Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot.

This close, Uther’s heir looked both younger and more beautiful than he had in the audience room, blue eyes clear over high, wide cheekbones. John frankly stared for a moment, before he remembered to drop to one knee, grunting with the effort. “Sire. I didn’t see you.”

Arthur frowned, seemingly annoyed by the ceremony. “Stand. I don’t know you, but you carry yourself like a soldier. Did you gain that wound in my father’s service?” He gestured at John’s leg.

“No,” John said, though there was something in Arthur’s direct gaze that made him unexpectedly sorry he could not answer in the affirmative. He pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his staff. It had been a wearying few days. “In the service of Mercia, I’m afraid. Thought I've also served Essetir. And Gawant. To be honest, I’ve served as physician for many kings and queens, over the years.”

“A wanderer, then.” Arthur smiled. His mild, respectful curiosity, the way he treated John as a fellow soldier, despite the difference in their ranks, were not at all what John would have expected from Uther’s son. “Do you owe your loyalty to any of them still?”

“No, sire. I am a native of Camelot, and I have returned to pledge myself to her,” John said, only realizing as he spoke that his words were true, for all his distrust of Uther’s policies.

“Good man.” If Arthur had noticed that John had said “Camelot,” rather than “the Pendragons,” he did not appear to mind. Perhaps he even approved. “Let me know if you plan to seek service as a physician again.” He clapped John on the shoulder and began to move away.

“Sire,” John said, emboldened by the prince’s interest. “I heard you arguing for Merlin’s innocence—before.” Arthur paused, wary now, perhaps of having his filial rebelliousness remarked on by the public. John hurried on, before he could lose his courage. “You see—the thing is—my—my friend and I—we had come to do the same thing. We had some evidence—or, my friend, Sherlock Holmes, thought we had some evidence…”

He trailed off. Now that he thought of it, he wasn’t sure what Sherlock had been planning to tell the king—everything had happened in such a rush.

But he had Arthur’s attention again. “Sherlock Holmes—that’s the man Merlin brought the bundle to instead of Gaius. Sir Gregory knows him, says he’s a clever man, despite his odd ways. You say he was bringing something to court that would clear Merlin? What?” He grasped John’s arm, his voice urgent now. Whatever the servant boy was to him, he was clearly anxious to clear his name.

“I—well, to be honest, I don’t know. But Sherlock wanted me to show your father this.” He held the scrap of parchment out so that Arthur could see it. “Do you recognize it? It was with the dead woman’s belongings, and we think it’s the same thing that she was trying to draw on the floor of the room where she died.”

Arthur took the scrap, turned it this way and that to catch the light. Finally, he shook his head and laughed ruefully. “I don’t know. It reminds me of the sign above an ox-cart stable in the lower town—the one that belongs to a man named Rache. The line around the animal looks like the daisy design he uses. I always thought that was a bit fanciful—flowers and oxen don’t really mix. But that can’t be it. What can the murders have to do with ox-carts?”

But John was staring at him thunderstruck. Signs. All around them. Hanging over every business in Camelot for those who couldn’t read—every tavern, and stable, and bake shop. “That’s it! She left us a clue about her own murder. That’s what Sherlock realized. Someone who can be any place with no one noticing. Someone people are likely to trust. An ox-cart driver who you can pay to take you from place to place, especially when you’re new to town. Perhaps she’d carried the recommendation from home, so she wouldn’t forget it.”

Arthur’s eyes widened; he gripped John’s arm harder. “You think he’s gone to find this Rache, your friend?”

“I’d stake my life on it.”

“Then we must go after him. That is too dangerous a task for one person alone.”

*

Somewhat to John’s surprise, Arthur did not summon his knights, or even a horse. He simply said, “Come on—I know a short cut,” and set off at a run through the twisting alleys of the upper town, and then through the more crowded streets of the lower quarter. A decisive man, for one so young, John thought; but he kept up with Arthur easily enough, his leg for once cooperating. Near the city gates, on a lane pitted by muddy puddles, they found the sign of the Ox and Daisy.

A lone apprentice stood in the stable yard, ineffectually sweeping away the scattered straw. He froze when he saw the prince, eyes bulging almost comically.

“Your master, where is he?” Arthur demanded.

“He—he—went out—in the cart—with a customer—“

“Tall man, this customer? Black hair, black cloak?” John asked.

The apprentice nodded.

Arthur looked as if he wanted to shake him. “Where’d they go—think, boy, it’s important.” 

But the apprentice merely shook his head.

John felt a rush of despair, but Arthur, once again, was decisive. “They can’t have gone far. I’ll send a messenger telling Gregory to begin searching with his knights. You and I will begin. You have horses?” he asked the apprentice, who nodded dumbly. “This should do for them.” He tossed the boy a small bag of coins.

“We’d best split up,” Arthur said, when the horses had been fetched and saddled. “You’ll want this.” He took a small, plain, dagger from his belt, where it hung next to his sword. “You know how to use it?” John made a fierce noise of assent, surprised by his own willingness to punish anyone who harmed Sherlock Holmes. “Then let’s be off—I’ll go west, you go east.”

John rode through the sparsely populated edges of the lower town. He felt little hope of finding anything. His mind had got stuck on the problem of why Sherlock would knowingly get into a cart with a man he believed to be a multiple murderer, and it turned the question over and over like, well, like a wagon wheel.

Then his horse turned a corner and found itself almost eye to eye with a pair of placid, broad-shouldered oxen.

The oxen, and the well-made cart to which they were yoked, were harnessed to a post outside a large, low-slung building—a granary or storage shed—abandoned by the ramshackle look of it.

Hardly daring to breathe—much less to question his luck—John slid from his horse. He put his hand on the dagger and left his staff behind.

The light was dim inside the building, a few hazy rays of sunlight filtering through the slatted boards of its walls. Twig and scraps of burlap bags littered the floor, but the vast room was empty. Empty, that is, but for two figures huddled at the far, indistinct in the murk. One was tall and immediately recognizable as Sherlock, the other was shorter and running to fat.

They at first seemed to be in some intense parley, but as John watched, the shorter man reached up press a knife or dagger against Sherlock’s throat.

Instantly, the certainty of battle upon him, John drew the Arthur’s dagger. He was good with a thrown blade—could hit most targets at fifty paces. But he knew, even as he let the dagger fly, that between the murk and the distance, it was an impossible shot. 

With no regret at all, John broke his second vow.

He felt the familiar heat behind his cheekbones, and knew that his eyes glowed with it. The dagger steadied itself in the air, and, as he spoke a few low words, adjusted its angle to his command. A faint green flame gilded its edges. Then, with a deeper satisfaction than he’d felt for years, John saw it bury itself between the stout man’s shoulder blades.

Sherlock’s head twisted sharply as the man fell to the ground. “Who’s there?” he called loudly. 

At the sound of his voice, all the danger of the situation rushed in on John again. Had anyone seen? Had Sherlock meant what he said about magic, or did he hate it as much as the rest of Camelot? John shook with the uncertainty of it all. And thus, even though Sherlock called out again, he retreated through the granary door. Better for all of them if he wasn’t found here, he reasoned with himself.

He took the horse, but set her free near the Ox and Daisy, hoping she’d find her way home. Then he wandered the lower town until the sun had risen to its meridian and began its descent. He downed two pints of beer in a rough-edged tavern, hoping to bolster his courage. They only made him fee exhausted, disgusted with himself, and slightly sick.

Finally, cursing himself as a coward, he returned to the granary. Better to face the consequences of his actions now, then be caught like a deserter, he told himself, although he only half-believed it.

A small crowd was milling in front of the building when he arrived, knights mixed with curious onlookers. As John began to thread his way among them, he was almost bowled over by Arthur, on horseback, pushing his way out.

"John," Arthur called when he saw him, his face a picture of delight. He reined his horse in sharply, to the alarm of several townsfolk near its slashing hooves. "Have you heard the news? Your friend found him."

John arranged his face in an expression of surprise. "That's wonderful!"

"The man's dead, unfortunately. Killed by someone else who held a grudge--only wish it could've been me. But never mind--he confessed everything to Sherlock before he died. No magic involved at all, apparently."

"You don't say," John managed weakly.

"I'm off to get Merlin out of the dungeons. But Sherlock's over there, if you're looking for him." Arthur back into the crowd, where John could now see Sherlock in close conversation with Sir Gregory.

Arthur spurred his horse forward. As he sped off, though, he turned and called over his shoulder. "Remember what I said about taking service in Camelot, John Watson; I could use more men like you."

“No,” Sherlock was saying to Gregory as John approached them, “he used no magic. I’m certain. He was a clever man—insane, to be sure, but clever. He convinced his victims to take the poison themselves. I’ll explain how later.”

“And the blade that killed him? Fine workmanship, but no identifying marks. Don't expect we'll ever find out who it belongs to. A man like that would have many enemies; stands to reason one would be good with a blade.” 

“Yes…though such a throw, in the dark, in with such precision. It would have to have been someone experienced in war, with a very steady hand. And I thought I saw…” Sherlock turned his head slightly, and his gaze lighted on John standing behind Gregory’s left shoulder. Their eyes locked.

“What?” Gregory asked. “What did you think you saw?”

“Nothing,” said Sherlock. “It was very dark in there, did I mention? Impossible to see a thing.”

He brushed off Gregory’s further queries and grasped John’s elbow, moving him out of the crowd. "Good throw," he said, as soon as they'd left the last circle of people.

"Yes, it was," John agreed. "I mean, by whoever made it. Very skilled. Nothing unnatural about it, of course, as you said yourself."

"Nothing unnatural. And thus nothing illegal. As I said myself."

John drew the freest breath he'd drawn in years.

But one last surprise awaited him as they made their way out of the crowd. In the shadow of a building, as if striving and failing to be inconspicuous, was a litter drawn by white horses and draped in white silk.

"That's him," said John, catching at Sherlock's cloak. "The man I told you about. I saw him again--"

But Sherlock ignored him. He was staring at the man himself, who had drawn aside the hangings and was regarding them with an odd mix of threat and entreaty. "You," Sherlock said.

John looked from one to the other. He had no idea what would come next.

The man in the litter spoke first. "We might try being on the same side every once in a while, Sherlock."

"Really, this little feud of ours isn't my fault. You know how Mummy hates it."

"Mummy?" John spluttered.

"Yes, Mummy." Sherlock informed him crossly. "As in our mother, mine and his. John, allow me to introduce my brother Mycroft."

Nothing that had happened to John in the long, strange day had been as surprising to him as this. "Your brother," he echoed stupidly. "The most powerful man in Camelot?"

"Yes. When he isn't dabbling in the affairs of Mercia or Gawant or half a dozen places you've never heard of."

John stood speechless, until Sherlock pulled at his bicep again. “Come on. No time for gawking. I’m famished. There’s a tavern near the baker that serves the most delicious meat pies. Sign of the Hat and Pipe. Got the owner off a murder charge a few years ago and he’ll feed us for free.”

Mycroft Holmes made no move to stop them, and as they left the white litter behind, the world seemed to sharpen and steady around John: the clear afternoon light; the flashing red of the knights' cloaks and the homespun browns of the townspeople; the smell of manure and cabbage and wet wool that was everywhere in the lower town; but most of all the warmth of Sherlock’s hand on his arm. He stole a look at Sherlock’s face and knew that all his secrets were safe behind that smile. An answering grin spread across his own face. Suddenly, a new, private world seemed to blossom in the space between them.

John felt it might be only a matter of time before he broke his third vow.


End file.
